


The Consequences of Proper Hydration

by HyenaKonrad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Gen, Watersports, bladder desperation, sexual desire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyenaKonrad/pseuds/HyenaKonrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was never one to concern himself over the maintenance of his body; until one John Watson came into his life and didn't give him a choice. But he kept from proper hydration for a reason. What happens when you mix bladder shyness and a man who is eager to keep you downing enough water to make you sweat at your need?</p>
<p>(Shows a hint at the end of John's arousal to the situation but it's not a Johnlock fic...yet ;D )</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consequences of Proper Hydration

It’s a contest with himself. Sherlock always felt that drive to test his body’s limits, because after all, it was just transport. He was the master of his body, and whatever he didn’t have time to do in the manner of maintenance, he simply wasn’t going to do. In the time before John Watson, that would include going an entire day without eating in the wake of a very important case, giving in only when his head would spin from an extreme drop in blood sugar and his body edged towards needing it rather than requesting it. Rather than sleep he would let the adrenaline do its work, pumping through his veins in the excitement of the chase, or when he’d made a brilliant breakthrough, edging closer to a solution. When that wasn’t enough and the fatigue threatened to overwhelm, a shot of caffeine was all he needed. Coffee wasn’t the ideal source, but it held the highest concentration of caffeine and got the gears of his mind working double time the fastest. Water was even forgone, because with hydration came the irritating side-effect that even Sherlock had to succumb to; the eventual need to void his bladder.

How irritating the human body. So many needs to keep it maintained, and all of them interfered with his work. He simply didn’t have time to make himself a meal, or to bother with finding a loo in the event his body sent desperate urges he could no longer ignore, or to waste away hours on sleep he could be using to solve his cases. But that all changed when John came. Because John for one apparently cared (which was no advantage on his part), and for two was a doctor. He wouldn’t allow Sherlock to neglect his body to the point of breaking. He would bring the detective food after long hours at work. He would bring him tea as a source of some caffeine to keep his brain working and fatigue from settling (but would also usher him off to bed if he was too unsteady on his feet from exhaustion). The water was the worst.

“Sherlock, you’re lucky I let you get away with only three cups a day as it is.”

“I don’t need it.”

“By hell you don’t!”

John slammed the cup of water on the table next to Sherlock as emphasis, trying to bring his attention from the microscope; his head didn’t move a centimeter. 

“Sherlock.”

He finally looked up to John, jaw set, eyes then glancing at the tall glass of water. The hovering was a distraction, so to get John to just leave him be, he downed the water in a few quick gulps. It sloshed and settled in his rather empty stomach with uncertainty, and it made Sherlock feel queasy. 

“Satisfied?”

John gave a short nod, then retreated back to his armchair to leave Sherlock be to his work.

~~

When he was at the flat, all of the water that John urged him to drink wasn’t a real issue. Sure, Sherlock didn’t want to get up from his experiments or pull away from the vast wealth of evidence he had gathered to solve his latest case, but his private loo was there for his use, and when the pressure had finally edged to absolutely unbearable, he would discreetly excuse himself to solve his little problem. It was out on legwork expeditions, out on the streets, that all of that water was a bother.

Over the past month, Sherlock has had his good days, and his bad. His bladder was well trained to hold whatever Sherlock forced it to hold, ignoring the signals requesting relief his body gave. But that was when coping with the small amount of fluid he would consume in his days. With the addition of all of the water and tea John instructed him to consume (again with the obnoxious hovering and eventual downing of whatever cup was set before him), Sherlock was finding his bladder was straining to cope with the new volumes of fluid. He refused to use public toilets for any number of reasons, the biggest one being his bladder shyness. Voiding was a very private matter for Sherlock, and he didn’t feel the need to make it public knowledge that he had a need for the toilet. Sherlock didn’t have needs. Sherlock didn’t need.

But today, by god did Sherlock need. Today had an early start. A maintenance worker, having risen early to continue work on a long overdue construction site, had found a body floating in the Thames, and it was quick work that had to be made to get the body out of the water before it was lost and had to be found again. Tedious work Lestrade wanted to avoid. The Yard managed to do their job, and now Sherlock was on the case. This had been the third drowning in two weeks. The case at first hadn’t grabbed Sherlock’s attention, but a third victim?

“Serial killer,” he muttered under his breath, inspecting the victim, body bloated. Bloated. Sherlock rubbed his belly absently. Aching discomfort. A wince. He ignored it.

“Unlike the other two victims, his body was dumped into the water after death.”

“So he wasn’t drowned.”

“That’s not what I said, was it?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, stifling a yawn. It was much too early in the morning to be dealing with Sherlock’s smart mouth, but he was getting a bit desperate for help.

“Cyanosis of the lips. Fingers,” Sherlock paused, pulling off one of the shoes to reveal pale, bloated feet, toes the same blueish hue as his fingers and lips, “toes as well. Cause of death was most certainly lack of oxygen. You’ll need to run an autopsy to be sure it was a drowning.” With the body having been in the river, presence of water in the mouth and throat wouldn’t prove a drowning. But if water was present in the lungs, that would mean water was inhaled before death, and would point to a drowning. Water. So much water. A shiver up his spine.

“We also found a truck, upriver a bit. Could be the perp’s. We have someone dusting for fingerprints now.”

Sherlock was trudging off for the truck almost before Lestrade could finish his statement. Upon arriving at the truck, Sherlock was confronted with some bizarre news; there were no fingerprints left behind. Now that wouldn’t be bizarre for someone wearing gloves, but on other parts of the truck, there could be seen the lines of the suspect’s palms in the wake of the dusting powder. But his fingerprints weren’t there. What was there where the pressure of his fingertips touched various parts of the truck were odd shapes and marks.

“Burned.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whoever we’re dealing with is very skilled in cleaning up his tracks. The pads of his fingers were burned for an extended period of time, scarring the skin and searing away the ridges of his fingers. He won’t leave behind any fingerprints. Oh he’s clever. Clever and dangerous.”

They were dealing with a man who could withstand immense pain for an extended period of time, and would do anything for his purpose; whatever that purpose was. Time to connect the dots.

“Lestrade, I need access to your evidence gathered thus far on this case.”

“Well you’ll have to head back with me then. It’s all locked up in our evidence storage.” They’d run into a bit of a problem with people losing evidence or misplacing it lately, so all evidence not in use was to be locked up in the storage room. Inconvenient, but necessary. Sherlock grunted a reply, then after gathering up John, they accepted a ride from the DI and headed back to the Yard.

A cup of tea. Three cups of water. That’s what was in his system at this point upon John’s insistence. He insisted so much so early because knowing Sherlock, this case would have him running up and down the streets of London for the remainder of the day, and he needed to get himself hydrated early on to keep his body at a more happier equilibrium throughout the day. Sherlock didn’t much care for such a trivial thing, and his sudden acknowledgement of a growing problem was exactly why.

Having been invested in examining the body and arranging what little facts he had so far in his head (since he hadn’t been on the case from the start), Sherlock didn’t have time to let his mind wander over the constant various discomforts of his body (despite the fact his body was already against his will showing tells of his need). And he wished he didn’t have time now, because he’d realized his bladder was growing steadily uncomfortable in his belly, sitting heavy and dense with all of the filtered fluid. Sherlock snuck a hand over it, and an urgent sensation tingled through his body. He wasn’t desperate yet, but the discomfort was an annoyance. He noticed it when he breathed, belt cutting into his abdomen, which was by now bloating. The body didn’t need so much water so early in the morning, and Sherlock had insisted on telling John that. But his words were ignored; and this was the consequence. It was going to be a long day, and countless hours before Sherlock would be back at Baker Street, where he could properly relieve himself. But that wasn’t a concern. He would be fine. He was in complete control of his body. Complete control. Sherlock crossed his legs tightly and stared out the window. He didn’t need.

~~

A few hours later, in the evidence room, he was singing a different tune. Sweat was high on his brow and he was heated around the collar, almost enough so to shuck out of his blazer. His groin was damp, and he hoped it was just sweat. Just let it be sweat. Oh his bladder was so heavy inside of him, his belt chaffing against his abdomen. His fingers danced lightly over his stomach, as a gauge of his need, and his bladder lurched in response. It throbbed and forced him to cross his legs to contain himself, hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. Oh it was miserable agony.

“Sherlock?”

What did a valet driver, a bellhop, and a waiter have in common (aside from working at the same five star hotel?). No, the hotel wasn’t the connection. Too simple. This killer wasn’t simple. That was too simple. Too simple. Too full. Oh Christ he was too full. It was a constant distraction now, the only thing in his mind. How could he possibly make any sort of connections in this case if the only thing his brain could wrap around was how tight his abdomen was against his trousers, skin tense, trapping that swollen organ inside. Trapped. Oh he needed relief of this immense pressure. So much pressure. Had to solve the case. Make the connection. Void. Void. He wriggled his hips, biting back against the impending flood. Please let it stop. Too much work. Not enough time for this. Too much time. Too long. He’s held it for much too long.

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice broke him from the desperate mantra pounding in his head, and glossy eyes turned to the smaller man, eyeing Sherlock with concern and knowing in return. He was a doctor, he wasn’t stupid. Of course it wouldn’t take a doctor to realize what was going on.

“Mind telling me why the world’s biggest idiot is standing over a table with his legs crossed so tight he’s probably cutting off all of the blood circulation in his legs?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing wrong. Just—“

“Bollocks! Sherlock, there’s a perfectly good toilet just around the corner!”

“John, I will not use a public facility.”

“And why the hell not? Is Sherlock bloody Holmes too damn good for such a common thing?”

John had his arms crossed, face stony and jaw set. Angry. Frustrated. Bit not good. He didn’t have the time or the attention span to deal with an angry Watson. No time. Too much time. Oh how it hurt. He needed time. Time to get away. Get away and seek relief. He needed to piss. Now.

“I’m not discussing this with you John.”

“No, we’re not discussing this. You are going to get over yourself and go to the toilet, or—“

A dry laugh. “Or what?”

John moved himself between Sherlock and the table, blocking his access to the evidence he’s quite frankly been staring rather blankly at for a length of time. Part of Sherlock was relieved to have his mind taken away from one burden trying to crowd in the frantic space that was his mind, while another part of him desperately wanted distraction from his urgent need to void. He pressed his thighs tightly together, body rigid and erect. His breaths were staggered and short. Breathing hurt. Breathing was boring. He would not hold himself. He would not shimmy his hips. He would not give in to this. Oh but he needed to. Sherlock needed. Badly.

“There. Nothing to work on. Not going to let you continue if you don’t just go!”

Sherlock was frustrated and oh so desperate. He wanted nothing more than relief, honestly, but couldn’t John see? There was no relief from his desperate situation here. Nowhere to go. Nowhere. But there’s so much that needs to go. He needs to go.

“John, I can’t…I won’t…”

Sherlock let out a tense breath, closing his eyes tightly. Throb. Throb. Oh the throbbing wouldn’t stop tight against his belt, waves of pressure that were relentless. There was just so much urine, more than he’s ever forced himself to hold in his living memory (or it could be that he cut any other desperate moments from his mind. They wouldn’t have been important enough to keep). He bobbed once, then regained some small measure of composure, going still once more, letting his face hold anger as a guard against his vulnerability. Those eyes, however gave him away.

“John, I can’t use public facilities.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t!”

“Not good enough”

Sherlock was exasperated. Stubborn, stubborn! Why was John always so damn stubborn? This isn’t something he wished to discuss with his flat mate by any means. This was a private matter. A private matter that was no longer quite so private. It was out in the open, ripped raw and wide. Vulnerable. He was vulnerable and he hated it. Sherlock averted his gaze to his feet before closing his eyes, clenching and unclenching his thighs repeatedly. Keep still.

“I don’t…I don’t relieve myself where others can…hear me. Know. That I’m…”

John’s expression held amusement for a moment, but then sympathy. Oh. Now there was something unexpected. Sherlock could feel embarrassment? Shyness? He was under the impression Sherlock was an unfeeling machine of a man, but here was evidence against that. Bladder shyness was something John had long gotten over during his years in the service and the lack of privacy (not that he was very shy in the first place, but wasn’t everyone even just a little bit so?). But for it to be this extreme.

“So you’re bladder shy then?”

“John…” Sherlock seethed through his teeth. Did he really feel the need to say it aloud? It was bad enough that he had to reveal this information in the first place. This isn’t something he’s divulged to a soul, save for Mycroft, and yet still this isn’t exactly something he’s had to deal with for quite a long time. Not since he graduated from school. Oh those years were agonizing. Long, long days of class, desperate for the loo. Not something he really wanted to be reminded of. A wave of urgent need came over him. Oh god it was going to come out! Sherlock’s hand dove for his pocket, shoved in quickly to reach for his swollen cock, squeezing tightly to prevent the inevitable flood, wriggling, desperate like a child.

“John…” this time more pleading.

“Hey, hey, steady now. Sherlock you…you don’t really have a choice in the matter right now.”

John rubbed Sherlock’s back up and down, trying to soothe the man into some sort of confidence.

“It’s a private loo. One toilet. No one else will be in there.”

“But if someone is standing outside the door, they’ll hear me.”

Sherlock tensed, stamping his foot as he fought through another wave of unbearable pressure. He was going to burst. Oh dear Christ he was bursting for the loo. He just wanted to piss, that was all. Why couldn’t he just go? Give in? Be human for once instead of holding himself so far above.

“How about this? I make sure no one comes near the door? No one is going to know you’re in there, ok? Sherlock, look. You either go use the toilet, or…”

He was thankful John didn’t say it. He knew what he was going to say, but god was he thankful he didn’t rip that inevitable disaster out in the open. He really had no choice. He looked down to John, then to the door that led out into the hallway. Now or never.

“Go make sure there’s no one in the hallway. Please. H-Hurry…”

John dashed for the door, ripping it open before glancing out in the hall in the direction of the loo. No one. All clear.

“Alright, you’re good Sherlock.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. After weathering through that last surge of pressure, Sherlock released himself, took his hand from his pocket, and headed for the door. It was going to be slower going than he thought it would be. He hurried as fast as he dared, legs pressed tightly together with his cock pressed between them. The stimulation was almost arousing (almost if it weren’t for the fact he was desperate to void his bladder and so couldn’t find himself coming to erection). Not that he wanted to be aroused. Oh dear god he just wanted to piss. After a journey that seemed entirely too long, he shoved through the door and let it slam shut behind him before hastily locking it.

With impending relief dangling in front of him, the muscles of his pelvic floor relaxed entirely too much, and a surge of warmth spread over the front of his trousers, straight through his pants. Sherlock shoved both of his hands between his thighs, rubbing them frantically together as he jostled up and down. Shameful. Oh just a few more moments. He was not going to wet himself here! Absolutely not! Oh please just a few more moments. Sherlock shuffled himself in front of the toilet, one hand squeezing his cock repetitively through his trousers while the other hand worked at his button and zipper. Hold on, hold on. He had to tell himself to hold on just a little…bit…longer…

Sherlock finally pulled himself out of his trousers, urine leaking out of the tip of his penis in desperate spurts that just wouldn’t stop. He aimed for the toilet, and finally relaxed…

Muffled voices. Someone was in the hallway. Sherlock froze, muscles going tight. Oh sweet jesus he had to go. Oh please just go away. Sherlock tried to relax, tried to put the muffled voices out of his head, but he just couldn’t. The hand not holding his cock pressed on his bladder, trying to stimulate a flow, but to no avail. His muscles were tight and unrelenting, anxiety flooding his mind.

“Oh pleeeease…”

He caught John’s voice, urging the other voice in a different direction. The other voice was stubborn, but soon the voices started to fade. Oh please just go. Go away. Leave him be to his privacy. Oh he was so very desperate. Tears pricked his eyes, not from emotion, but rather from the immense discomfort he was under, and has been under for hours now. With the voices gone and nothing stopping him, his urine finally burst forth in a hard pounding stream. The relief was almost too much, nearly toppling the man to his knees. Sherlock had to catch himself on the wall, grappling it with his fingers as he made rather uncharacteristic whimpers and sounds of sheer relief. Oh god he was not gasping and moaning. He absolutely was not. If anyone could hear him, he would deny, deny.

It was many long moments later before his stream finally started to die down to a dribble, and then the stream ceased, and he was finally becoming aware of his body. His heart was beating rapidly, skin flushed, and in the wake of his relief, his cock twitched in his hand, stiffening. No. This response was not allowed. Sherlock quickly stuffed himself back into his pants, doing up his trousers before straightening up and composing himself so that he was presentable. No one could know how shamefully he enjoyed the feeling of immense relief after painful denial. It was depraved, disgusting, and not something Sherlock could allow of himself. He was above that. He was above human need; his body’s needs. He would not allow his body to need and give into it (unless he allowed it on his own terms). Sexual desire of any kind was prohibited and taboo. His body could get over it.

Once he believed he was sufficiently calmed, Sherlock exited the washroom, proceeding once more to the evidence room, John turning to look to him with an awkward smile.

“Better?”

Sherlock grumbled, proceeding back to the table and to the evidence, and within minutes had the connection mapped out neatly in his mind, and by the end of the day the case solved. It was a wonder what you could do when you weren’t distracted. John and Sherlock didn’t talk about what had transpired. And they certainly didn’t talk about the raging erection that bulged stiffly in Sherlock’s trousers a good remainder of the day at the sheer thought of his intense desperation (the thoughts edged in during brief moments during travel or waiting on test results).

And John certainly didn’t talk about how he fantasized that night about a very desperate Sherlock losing it all over his lap while he pleased himself in his bed at the end of their long and tiresome day. 

Again. That simply must happen again.

**Author's Note:**

> This has NOTHING to do with the series that I had started writing (and hope to continue as I find direction). It's an offshoot thing I felt like writing, and nothing more.
> 
> This is my kink. My one and only kink, and I wanted to contribute to the lovely fics I've found on this site. You'll DEFINITELY be seeing more of this from me. I have another fic in mind I'm planning to write that sort of looks in on Sherlock's childhood and his problems with his bladder shyness, so look forward to that (if you're at all interested that is)!  
> Hope this wasn't too bad...


End file.
